She then realized the foresight Sarge had shown, the reason for his urgency.
The full length of the barge suddenly sank swiftly deep down into the river. Its descent, so swift, added to its weight, divided the river briefly. She felt sure she had a glimpse of the river bed. Then two monster waves swept towards each bank, struck them like a cyclone, hurling unknown tons of water across the Embankment and up the sides beyond the pavement. They would have been inundated. She sighed with relief as they sped under the bridge and the river became normal.
There would have been no time for the crowds of men aboard to leave. They were now entombed in the sunken barge lying on the river bed.
The Arab commander of the three remaining barges, proceeding upriver, Sarge correctly guessed, would not try the same trick again. Sarge simply moved his three firing points closer to the target bridges, but far enough away so they would not be touched by his own bombs exploding.
Two barges were sunk by his bombs. They sank slowly, giving al-Qa'eda time to lower men in dinghies. But this time, on Ali's orders, they headed towards the right bank. None of them reached the shore alive. Buchanan's anti-terrorist squad killed them all while they were still on the river.
Barge No. 5, with Ali now aboard, assigned to destroy Chelsea Bridge, received its bomb and missile as soon as it was well clear of the bridge, earlier than Ali had expected.
The vessel burst into flames along its whole length. The Arabs in dinghies, who had fled the barge, again headed for the right bank. Again, Buchanan's men, some using flame-throwers for the first time, killed all the Arabs before any came near the river bank.
The barge, which must have carried a large reserve of ammo, suddenly blew up. The deckhouse was hurled into the sky, fell back into the river, disappearing with a sinister hiss. Other sections flew skywards, descended, to be swallowed up by the fast-flowing river. Buchanan later congratulated his men on doing a great job.
Despite all his other responsibilities, Buchanan had not forgotten the captive guard at Dick's wharf. He disagreed with the decision that they should not risk rescuing Proctor.
After all it was his city, his side of the river. Therefore he gave careful instructions to Sergeant Mackie, marksman. Marler was recognized as being the top marksman in Europe, but Mackie was number two.
Earlier, Mackie, his rifle strapped over his shoulder, had cycled to Dick's wharf. Marler would have admired how silently Mackie moved when he reached his objective. He had descended to the main building where lights shone in a large office. Peering through a window, he saw Proctor tied to a chair. He also saw the brute of a guard armed with an automatic.
The last barge, destined to target Albert Bridge, was still moored to the wharf. As Mackie watched he saw the guard go to a window, peer down at the barge where men were removing mooring ropes. It was about to sail.
Mackie tested the window, was surprised to find it was not locked. Al-Qa'eda's security was not perfect. The guard had his back towards him, watching the crew below, as Mackie slowly pushed the window open, inch by inch. Hinges well oiled.
One of the crew on the wharf beckoned to the guard, pointed to a rope ladder slung over the side of the hull, the escape route. The guard came back into the room, checked his automatic. He then walked behind Proctor, raised the gun to lay it alongside Proctor's head.
Mackie coughed. The guard swung round, removing his weapon from Proctor's head. Mackie shot him twice – once in the head just in case he was wearing a bullet-proof jacket – then in the back below the left shoulder-blade. The guard toppled down forward, hitting the wooden floor with a thud.
Mackie climbed inside, ran to the prone guard, kicked away the automatic close to his hand. Bending down, he checked the carotid artery. Nothing. Dead as a dodo. He turned to Proctor, who had a dazed expression.
'Don't worry. I'm British anti-terrorist squad. Let's get these ropes off you. Expect you'll want to call your wife.'
51
'No sign of the SAS jeeps,' Harry called out.
Paula had helped him up into the rear of the jeep driven by Tweed. She looked back. Harry was right. There were three jeeps behind them but they carried the rest of Tweed's team. Beyond that there was empty Embankment as they headed for Albert Bridge. Driving with one hand, Tweed reached for his radio-telephone, hoping it had not been disconnected.
'Sarge, any hope of saving Albert?'
'Sorry. None. We have used up our special equipment. Only just come into service. I raided the store. Keep well clear of Albert. I leave it to you and Buchanan to deal with any enemy who might survive. My unit has been proud to cooperate with yours. Until next time…'
Then the connection was broken. The SAS had gone, as invisibly as they had arrived. Paula caught a glimpse of police cars racing along the opposite bank, keeping pace with Tweed's unit.
'I at least want to see Albert,' she said.
'But not too close,' Tweed warned.
'At least we've saved five out of six major bridges,' Newman commented over the phone, which was independent, but had earlier been linked with Sarge's communication system.
Tweed parked close to the Chelsea Royal Hospital area. The other three jeeps pulled up behind him. He jumped out, went back to them.
'I am now giving you a direct order. You will stay here and go no closer to the bridge. You probably heard Sarge's warning. We can do nothing to save Albert. But, as Newman said, five out of six major bridges saved is a good score.'
'We may be able to take a few more of them,' said Harry, now standing beside Tweed, his sub-machine gun tucked under his right arm.
'It's coming now,' Paula shouted.
On the opposite shore Buchanan stood outside the lead police car. Many vehicles were parked behind him. The dreadful silence had returned, the silence Paula found so eerie. She was standing on the Embankment, holding her camera. She knew the pictures she would take would be horrific but she felt she needed a record. She took two quickly.
The sixth barge, which had, according to plan, left Dick's wharf so late, was hardly moving as its bows thrust under Albert Bridge, reminding Paula of the snout of some monstrous shark.
In the deckhouse Ali was controlling the barge's momentum with great care. He had fled in his speedboat back to the last barge when he realized his operation had ended in disaster. And Abdullah had promised it would make the Trade Center operation in New York look like child's play.
He reversed the engines briefly, to halt the barge with the main hatch under the centre of the bridge. Then he ran out, along the deck, dropped down the ladder into the main hatch. He threw away the ladder.
He was going to press the two buttons for detonation himself. Ali would die with his remaining men. He stared round at the men with him on the base of the hull. They were kneeling on their prayer-mats, facing east.
Ali took a deep breath. Then pressed the first button, then the second. The huge shell-like bomb streaked upwards, aimed at the the centre of the bridge. He clasped his hands in prayer, his last movement.
Gazing through the viewfinder of her camera, Paula saw a huge object hurtling upwards. A brief vision. Then the world exploded. Deafening thunder rolled down the river. A swift blinding flash.
The entire centre of the bridge shattered, great sections of it hurtling into the sky, taking for ever to descend and disappear under the water. Waves rolled towards both shores. Fragments of white-painted railing hurtled up even higher to greater altitudes. Chunks of masonry the size of huge boulders flew across the Embankment, crashed into the houses in the Cheyne Walk area. The initial ear-splitting crash when the bomb hit had died down. Now they could hear the masonry fragments hitting buildings like a bombardment. On both sides of the river. A lot of black smoke obscured the wreckage which had once been a bridge. The breeze blowing downriver cleared the smoke, revealing the ghastly spectacle of the remnants of the bridge which had spanned the Thames for so many
